


3,500 Miles

by Venatrix26 (SuperWhoLocked221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Addict!Sherlock, Eventual Johnlock, Fluff, M/M, PTSD, Pen Pals, Rehab, Soldier!John, WIP, War, rated explicit just in case
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-25 12:29:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2621798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperWhoLocked221b/pseuds/Venatrix26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson left his home 9 years ago to join the military, and now serves as a captain in Afghanistan. Sherlock Holmes is a young genius, now stuck in a rehab facility his brother sent him to after a nearly fatal overdose of heroin 2 months prior. By all accounts, their lives should never cross. However, when the two are assigned as pen pals, both their lives are forever changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One More Try

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt at a multi-chapter fic, so please leave comments letting me know how i'm doing! I rated it explicit just in case, but for now it's pretty tame. For clarification, Sherlock is 25 and John is 27. I'd like to thank my good friend Leah, who heavily influenced the major points in this piece, as well as helped me write the first 2 chapters. You should definitely follow her super quality blog at www.benvvyatt.tumblr.com <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A soldier in Afghanistan and an addict in London sign up for a pen pal program. What's the worst that could happen?

John breathed in the warm, heavy air and let it out slowly. His left hand lazily gripped his assault rifle as his right blocked the harsh Afghan sun, which was now setting in the distance, from his eyes. He looked up to see the three helicopters assigned to take him and his troop back to base after a long day of patrol. Hot and thirsty, he eagerly watched as they landed about 50 yards out. Sand stung his face as the spinning rotors created a flurry in the dunes. He waited for his troop to file in before he attached his body armor to the bay window, letting his sore feet dangle over the edge as the helicopters lifted them back into the air. John watched the small village shrink as they climbed higher and higher into the sky, heading back to the one place he had some importance in his menial life.

Being a captain gave him a satisfying feeling control. Given his past, that sort of control is comforting, and very much welcomed. He took his helmet off and held it under his right arm as his left fingers ran through his short blonde hair. He stuck his head farther out of the open door, letting the wind dry the sweat out of his short, military buzz-cut.

By the time they had landed at the base, the sun was just dipping into the horizon. John unclipped himself from the helicopter and stepped onto the sand covered concrete, his helmet still held loosely between his side and right arm. John waited for the other helicopters to land before making his way into the common room with his troop. He stopped abruptly as he saw 20 or so soldiers lined up at a table, filling out forms and turning them into the woman running the booth.

Confused, he went to find Bryer, a fellow Captain and old friend of his. Bryer was 34, and just a few inches taller than John. He had jet black hair and olive skin. John found him sitting at a table with some other soldiers playing a game of cards.

“Hey, Bryer. Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure.”

Bryer stood up from his chair and walked with John to a quieter part of the large room. John started.

“What’s going on? What’s everyone signing up for?”

Bryer shrugged his head. “Some pen pal program the higher ups thought would, as they said in their report, “help reduce the likelihood of serving and returning soldiers from developing PTSD.” or some bullshit like that. Ya sign up and write to some bloke who’s just as crazy as you are.”

Bryer laughed as he said it, patting John on the back before continuing. “You know, you outta try it. Give ya something to do besides shoot at people all day. It’ll be good for you!"

John laughed. “I hardly think I’m _that_ desperate. Besides, I get plenty of letters as it is.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, although none of the letters he received were exactly welcome. Bryer simply chuckled before continuing.

“Whatever you say, mate! I gotta get back to my game before any of those bastards steal my money. See ya around!”

John looked at the growing line briefly before dismissing the idea once again. He didn’t need a complete stranger pretending to understand him, telling him it would all be ok. No, he could get on by himself. He was used to being on his own.

He quickly left the common room before the thought could cross his mind again. One of the many perks of being a Captain was having your own room, and although it was small, it was private and comfy. He entered quickly and breathed a content sigh as he stripped his heavy armor. Finally comfortable in his cargo pants, socks, and plain white t-shirt, he collapsed on the edge of his bed. Although it was only 8:30, he was already tired enough to go to sleep. Unfortunately, a negative to being a Captain was extra work, meaning he still had to fill out an official report of his troops patrol. He groaned as he forced his sore body to sit up and walk over to his small desk. Piles of paper were stacked everywhere, including the many letters he had yet to open. He saw no need to read them, as they were always from his family, and always said the same thing.

Staring angrily at the 12 letters that had yet to be opened, he mimicked his mother and sister’s voices in his head.

_John, send me money. John, come back home and take care of me. John, stop thinking about what you want and think about me. John, do what I want because I’m your mother and you’re only here to help me._

The more he thought about his family, the more frustrated he got. After all, the army had been an excuse to get away from them. His childhood wasn’t exactly perfect, or bearable for that matter. An alcoholic father and an passive mother were rarely a good combination.

He pushed the memories from his mind, refusing to think about it any more. He turned his attention to the task at hand, which was filling out copious amounts of mind numbing paperwork. He continued to write until his hand gave out, which was around 9:30. He sighed, deciding he didn’t have the patience to fill out another report. He was about to turn off the desk lamp and get some sleep when his eyes once again drifted to the pile of letters sitting in a small metal tray that served as his mailbox. In a fit, he grabbed them all and tossed them in the trash before sitting back down at his desk. He closed his eyes and rubbed his head, trying to keep his wayward emotions in check.

“Screw it. Might be nice to get a letter from someone who doesn’t want my bank account number for a change.” He mumbled to himself before standing and leaving his room, not even bothering to put his shoes on. At this hour, soldiers were normally in their rooms, and as expected, he didn’t see anyone as he navigated the halls. When he finally reached the common room, he found it empty, apart from the woman who was running the booth. She was cleaning up the table when John walked up.

“Is it too late, then?”

The woman looked up and smiled.

“I still have a couple of forms out. Just fill one out and we’ll take care of the rest.”

John returned the smile and filled out the required information before handing it back to her. She read it quickly for errors and, when she could find none, slipped it in the pile with the rest of the forms.

“Well Captain Watson, I hope you enjoy our program.”

__________________________________________________________________________

***3 weeks later***

“No.”

His therapist, Ella, shifted uncomfortably in her chair before replying.

“Sherlock, I really think this will help you. You just have to try.”

Sherlock was lying on the small leather couch, his neck supported on one armrest while his ankles rested over the other. He breathed in slowly to avoid shouting, and continued to stare at the ceiling as to hide his look of contempt.

“I have tried. Six times, _in case you’ve lost count_.”

There was little to hide his frustration as the last five words left his mouth with a snarl. Ella had some romantic notion that a pen pal would solve all his problems, and had signed him up to participate in some program that partnered him with a soldier serving in the middle east. Sherlock could hear her take off her reading glasses to rub her forehead, most like to soothe her growing headache.

“I’ve read your letters, Sherlock. I’m not sure any of them count as _trying_.”

In a flash, Sherlock was standing and pacing angrily in the small room, his hands gesturing his every word.

“Correctly me if I’m wrong, but these _‘friends’_ you claim are so _‘important’_ are supposed to _“accept you for who you are”_ , as you’ve told me _so many times_. Now this would imply that I should, in fact, not have to try, as whatever I write is who I am.”

Ella sat up in her chair, clearly flustered as she attempted to interrupt the genius’s rant, but to no avail, his voice growing in volume and anger as he spoke.

“So _perhaps_ the problem is not my _writing_. Maybe it’s just _me_.”

Sherlock spat out the last 2 sentences as though they physically hurt. Ella sat in stunned silence as the young man closed his eyes forcefully and breathed ragged breaths in an attempt to reign in his aggravation. He spoke quietly but forcefully.

“I think I'm done for today. I'm going back to my room.”

As Sherlock’s hand reached for the door handle, Ella stood to place a hand on his shoulder from behind. He couldn’t see her, but he could guess what she looked like. She spoke in a soft, gentle voice.

“Please, Sherlock. Just try one more time.”

There was a long moment of silence. His head fell to his chest as he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

“Fine.”

Ella seemed to perk up a bit, though her voice was still gentle when she spoke.

"You're already signed up. Your pen pals form is in your room."

Sherlock groaned.

************

Sherlock stormed into his small white room. Closing the door loudly, he flopped onto the bed and buried his face into the pillow. He had very few personal possessions, including only his coat, a cell phone, and a skull he’d had since he was a child. Unfortunately, all his nice clothes were still at his old flat. They were all required to wear the same cheap white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, as it was easier to identify patients from far away. Mycroft had sent him to, as he said, “The best rehab facility money can buy.”, but what he should have said was “This place is for such extreme druggies that they force the patients to look the same so they can tell if someone’s trying to escape.” He cursed his brother inwardly for at least the 100th time that day.

Why had he promised to write another letter? It didn’t help. Not to mention his pen pals had a nasty habit of not responding, though he doubted it was a coincidence. He sighed and stared at the pile of cold cases his contact Lestrade had dropped off for him that day. Thank god for that man, lest he would have absolutely nothing to do but stare at a wall. He took a file from the top of the stack and flipped through it, having already solved it by the time he reached the last picture.

“Obvious...” He murmured to himself before walking over to his desk. He had told Ella he would try this program one more time, and although he had no interest in it, better to get it out of the way than have to listen to Ella complain about him procrastinating. He picked up a black pen and a piece of paper. As promised, a form was already in his otherwise empty inbox. He unfolded the paper and scanned through the information, which stated only his name, gender, rank, and age. He found himself once again frustrated that there were no pictures to deduce, and would have to wait until this Captain Watson replied to learn about him. _If he replies_. His brain reminded him.

Once he had finished writing, he sealed it in a dark red envelope and scribbled the strangers name and return address on the outside. Walking into the fluorescently lit hallway, he handed the letter to the nurse sitting at his floors help desk.

_Here goes nothing._

 


	2. A Red Envelope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is a sarcastic asshole.

***1 week later***

John stared at his dinner with disinterest as his fellow soldiers piled it in their mouths, not bothering to pause their conversation to do so. The mess hall was buzzing with chatter, but John sat quietly, picking at his meal in an attempt to find something edible. Even though he had been in the military 9 years, he still had trouble forcing down the rubbish that they passed as food. John had signed up for the military when he turned 16, and left for training the day of his 18th. It was an escape for him, considering his home life.

Recalling his pre-military years, he suddenly found his appetite dwindle, his hunger replaced by a pit that settled deep in his gut. John stood from the table and carried his tray to the garbage, dumping in almost a full meals worth of food. If anyone noticed, no one bothered to say anything as John slipped out into the empty hall, and walked straight to his room. He quickly sat at his desk and busied himself with stacks of forms he had yet to complete. This kind of busy-work had become his makeshift remedy for dealing with the past, although it was becoming increasingly unhelpful.

John easily had enough medical training to diagnose himself with PTSD. This was, of course, a diagnosis he kept to himself for fear of medical discharge. He’d see it happen to plenty of soldiers; Some he’d even examined himself, cutting their military career short as he sent them home. He had always found it slightly ironic that the military had been the remedy for his PTSD, rather than the cause.

Having trouble losing himself in his work, he found his eyes drifting around his room. They settled on his inbox, where a dark red envelope was poking out from a pile of cream colored ones. Curiosity settled in as he snatched it from underneath the pile, holding it under the lamp to examine it. _Captain John Watson_ was scribbled in black ink, barely distinguishable from the dark colored paper it was written on. Looking at the address it was sent from, he finally realized what it was. A letter from his pen pal, organized by a program he had signed up for over a month ago.

A small part of him regretted the decision. While socializing was never particularly difficult for him, it seemed like a waste of energy making friends with someone he would never meet. Not to mention his writing skills were nonexistent. Regardless, he found his hand moving towards the letter opener on his desk. Neatly cutting it open, he pulled out a single sheet of white paper and sat down on his bed, leaning against the wall as he read.

 

_The name's Sherlock Holmes._

_Unfortunately, my therapist is, once again, forcing me to “share my innermost thoughts” with a total stranger in a feudal attempt to keep me from shooting up. It’s completely illogical. I cannot think of a worse way to spend my afternoons in this prison. They actually seem to believe this will help keep me occupied, when in reality I cannot think of anything so amazingly dull. But since my dim therapist is requiring me to fill the page I best finish quickly so I can get on with something more interesting (like staring at a wall)._

_You should know you are my 6th pen pal. They usually stop responding after my second letter, but if I’m lucky they don’t respond at all. One less of their idiotic letters to read. My therapist tells me I should, and I quote, “Improve my social skills”, but to be honest I couldn’t care less. I don’t need friends, I only need to work. I have a contact at Scotland yard who sends me cold case files to work on so I don’t kill myself out of boredom. He seems to think I’m some sort of detective genius, but they really are dreadfully easy to solve. I mean honestly- anyone with half a decaying brain could figure out it was the gardener._

_Unless you’re as dimwitted as everyone else I have ever met (which is probable), you’ve most likely figured out that I’m most certainly not here by my own will. My older brother decided that he knows what’s best for me, and checked me into this ridiculous excuse for a rehab facility (it’s only slightly more ridiculous than his idea of a diet). It’s quite hard to argue with him considering he seems to think himself the british government._

_They told me your name is John. A dreadfully boring name if you ask me but I’m willing to overlook it considering it wasn’t your decision. I don’t expect a response, but if you do write back, try not to bore me to death._

_-SH_

 

John stood up and tossed the letter on his desk, next to his growing stack of paperwork. He stood behind his chair, resting his hands on the back of it while he processed the odd message. When Bryer had said their pen pals would be "just as crazy as you are," he hadn't been lying. Even though he had grown up in one of London's poorer neighborhoods, John had always managed to stay away from drugs. He’d known a lot of kids who hadn’t, and a few who’d lost their lives because of it. Despite his initial hesitation, part of John felt an immediate kinship to Sherlock. He was, in many ways, different than all the other addicts he'd dealt with in his life. He was obviously intelligent, a rare trait in someone known for "shooting up," as he had put it. The hostility was undeniable, but it portrayed a man who spent more time being rejected than rejecting others. If anything, Sherlock's pessimism was welcome; John was tired of being told everything was ok. He wanted a solution to his problems, and pretending the problem didn't exist wasn't cutting it anymore.

For some reason he couldn't place, John wanted the pretentious strangers approval. While others might have felt Sherlock was talking down to them, John felt as though he had been challenged. The addict's tone seemed to whisper " _Come on; Impress me. Make this worth my time._ "

John sat down and picked up a pen. His hand hesitated over the blank paper as he eyed a pile of to-be-completed forms, but the thought of spending another evening signing papers and writing official reports was enough to tear him back to the task at hand. His pen hovered above the paper as he searched for the right words. The woman who ran the booth had included a paper full of conversation starters in his inbox, as if she knew he was going to be terrible at this.

John sat immobile 10 minutes, contemplating how best to capture the genius’ attention. Finally, he began to write in slow, deliberate letters. He imagined Sherlock judging his every word, pointing out his spelling mistakes and grammatical errors. He smirked as he imagined that, figuring correcting John’s letter would occupy some of the addicts time. Hours crept by as John wrote into the night. If his hand cramped, he never noticed. It wasn’t until he signed his 5th draft that he was satisfied with his work. He licked an envelope closed, placed it at the top of his outgoing mailbox, and turned off the dim desk lamp before finally sliding under his sheets and drifting off to sleep.

__________________________________________________________________________

***1 week later***

“I read your letter, Sherlock.”

The addict was in his normal position, lying spread out on the black couch, fingers pressed under his chin, eyes closed in deep thought. If he heard what his therapist had said, he made no indication. When she spoke next, her voice was obviously strained.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Hm?”

“Your letter. To your new pen pal. I read it.”

“Ah, yes. I did write to someone, didn’t I?”

“I asked you to try.”

“Technically any amount of effort I put in can be considered trying, so…”

“You know what I mean.”

Sherlock’s eyes popped open and he turned his head to look at his therapist. His eyes thinned and he scowled at her in mock-disapproval. His words were thick with sarcasm.

“Don’t you think it’s a little rude to read my letters? And more to the point, isn’t it one of those “Law Things”? Infringement of privacy, or whatever.”

“Privacy isn’t really one of our goals here.”

“No wonder you have such bad yelp reviews.”

“You _really_ spend your time reading reviews on yelp?”

“No, I spend my time _writing_ reviews on yelp.”

Ella took off her glasses to rub her temples, seemingly a tradition for her whenever she talked to the young genius.

“Can you please be serious for once, Sherlock?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Ella didn’t try to hide her sigh.

“I think we’re getting a little off track here.”

“Debatable.”

“His letter came in today, you know.”

Sherlock’s sarcastic smirk turned into a look of genuine confusion for a few seconds before his nonchalant demeanor took him over again. He rolled his head back so he was staring at the ceiling and interlaced his fingers on his stomach.

“Well, it seems I owe the patient in room 407 some money.”

“You _bet_ on whether or not your pen pal would answer?”

“See, I told you I can be social.”

“What’s the patients name?”

“Taylor.”

“It’s Samantha.”

“Close enough.”

“Listen, Sherlock. I _really_ do think this program can help you, but you have to _let it_. I can’t force you to get better.”

Sherlock made no witty retort, which encouraged Ella to continue.

“I know you don’t want to be here, believe me you’ve made it _abundantly clear_ , but you aren’t leaving until you’re healthy again. Physically _and_ mentally.”

Sherlock sounded tired, the novelty of frustrating his therapist wearing off after a few minutes.

“Are we almost done here?”

Ella didn’t seem to be done, but she had learned in the past few months that talking to Sherlock when he didn’t want to be talked with was pointless, and made him more stubborn than usual. Still, she could try to take advantage of her position.

“Only if you promise to go respond to your pen pal.”

“Only if you promise to stop reading my letters. It’s creepy.”

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you guys think in the comments! I'll try to update regularly, and it always helps when I know people like what I write! (Also this isn't beta'd so sorry for any mistakes. I reread it a bunch but lord knows i'm not perfect)


	3. The 3 Kinds of Soldiers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's interests are piqued when a letter arrives for him from his new pen pal, a rare occurrence for the abrasive addict. Elsewhere, John has a much better pokerface than Bryer gives him credit for...
> 
>  
> 
> Also Sherlock is awful with names. Just the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your comments and kudos I got on the first 2 chapters! It really gave me the motivation to finish this chapter as quickly as possible. I'm gonna try to upload regularly, so you can expect at least one chapter every week, probably uploaded friday-sunday. Thanks again! <3

Sherlock looked at the hallway clock as he left the therapy room. _Damn, only 9:30…_ He cursed inwardly. While his letter had been delivered to the building, patient inboxes weren’t filled until after lunch. He opened the door to the rec room, where the more sociable druggies on his floor were playing old board games. Some others were making small talk, while the rest were staring out the window at the city below. Sherlock put on the best smile he could as he approached the nurses station. The attendant on duty was staring intently at her computer, undoubtedly playing some mind numbing game like solitaire. She was an older woman, somewhere around 45, Sherlock guessed. Her appearance was ordinary, and her hair would be gray if not for the cheap red dye she applied every week. She didn’t look up from her computer as Sherlock started to speak.

 “Hello, Vanessa. You're looking wonderf-”

“I don’t want to hear it, Sherlock. Whatever it is you want, the answer’s no.”

“Are you implying that I only speak to you when I need something? Can’t I say hello to my favorite nurse without some hidden agenda?”

“My name’s Jessica.”

“I was closer than usual.”

The attendant didn’t respond as she continued to play her game. Sherlock eyed her desk until he found something useful. A fairly recent picture next to her computer showed her with a man, obviously a husband by their body language. Still, something about him seemed off…

 “I can make you a deal.”

Her interests were obviously piqued, though she tried to remain indifferent.

“What can you offer me?”

“I can tell you about your husband.”

Jessica’s face snapped to Sherlock’s. He smiled. While the nurse wasn’t exactly a fan of his, it was common knowledge among the staff that Sherlock was a detective, and a good one at that.

“There’s another girl isn’t there?”

Sherlock stayed quiet, but eyed her playfully. He wasn’t leaving until he got what he wanted.

“I believe a letter came for me today. Someone by the name of John Watson. I know you aren’t supposed to hand out mail until 1, but…”

Before he could finish his sentence, Jessica was out of her seat and in the back room. A minute or so later, she returned with a manilla envelope. She quickly handed it to the addict.

“What’s her name? Is she younger than me? Prettier? I should have know, with all those late nights and “business trips” he’s been taking…”

Sherlock gave her a satisfied smile while she continued to ramble off questions.

“There is no other woman.”

The nurse stopped and stared at him for a second before quietly sitting back down in her seat. Her face was flush with embarrassment, but there was a smile in her eyes; Obviously a weight had been lifted off her chest. Sherlock tapped the letter on the desk as he turned to leave.

“Thanks for the help, Justina!”

“It’s still Jessica!” She called after him.

“ _Whatever…_ ” the genius mumbled under his breath, now satisfied. He pushed the door between the rec room and the hallway open, his socks barely making a sound on the vinyl floor. He smirked. He hadn’t been lying when he told her there was no other woman, but another man? That was a definite possibility...

He walked quickly down the white hallway, going only slow enough not to slip on the smooth floor. He didn’t want to read the letter until he was alone in his room, so instead the addict bussied himself with analysing the strangers handwriting. The outside of the envelope simply read “S. Holmes” in slow, deliberate letters. _First initial, last name. Definitely a military man._

The envelope itself was thick and opaque, but Sherlock could tell the letter inside was only one page of paper. _Interesting_. The few times one of his pen pals had actually responded, their letters had been borderline novel in length, as if they felt the need to include their entire life story. Sherlock usually read the first few sentences before he grew too bored to continue.

One page. What did one page mean? _Base on the letter I wrote him, he probably just wrote “fuck you”_ , he thought with a grin, yet a part of him adamantly hoped that wasn’t the case. He turned the letter over in his hand a few times, but the only thing written on it was the facilities address and Sherlock’s name.

When he got to his room, he immediately closed the door. His room was moderately sized and surprisingly homey for a prison cell, one of the benefits of his brothers money. The walls were white-painted concrete, and the floor was the same tiles as the hallway, albet much cleaner. A soft red carpet covered most of the floor, letting the tile peak out only around the edges of the room. A square window gave him a beautiful view of London, but the metal bars kind of broke the illusion. His bed was comfortable enough, and he was allowed a small night stand next to it, though the only thing he kept on it was his skull and his cellphone. The only other thing in his room was his desk, which was placed against the opposite wall as his bed. On it, case files were strewn about.

Sherlock walked so that he was faced the small window. He sat on the edge of his bed and opened the letter carefully. Slowly pulling out the paper, he found the entire front page to be full of small, carefully written letters.

 

_You can probably tell that I’ve never had a pen pal (let alone 6. I guess that makes you the expert here). The whole thing always seemed awkward to me, like how do they expect two strangers with nothing in common to hit it off over poorly written letters that you have to wait days for? The woman who ran the sign up booth was kind enough to include a list of conversation starters with your letter, though most of them are so boring I wanted to kill myself, so I doubt they’ll intrigue you. The least mind-numbing idea on here says to talk about life in the army, so here goes, I guess._

_I don’t think anyone really plans to join the army. For most, it’s a last resort. I can’t tell you how many soldiers I’ve trained who were kicked out of their homes for being “unruly” or “disrespectful.” Those are the soldiers who needed the money, or the food, or the roof over their heads. Those are also the youngest. After them, you’ve got the maniacs; The soldiers who get a little too bright-eyed when you hand them a gun. Thankfully, I don't deal too much with those kind. You can’t trust them. Then you’ve got your wanderers. They don’t like to talk about why they enlisted, but my guess is they’ve got no where else to be. This is the best they’re gonna get out of life, so they deal._

_I’m not really sure which I am. I can tell you I’m not a maniac, though that’s probably a disappointment to you considering your favorite pastime seems to be solving crimes. I definitely wasn’t kicked out of my house; Leaving that apartment was a blessing. It’s not too often you hear about a soldier who joined the army to get away from a war, but here I am. When you look at it, I must sound like the perfect wanderer, but truth is I don’t think that’s right, either. There are so many places I’d rather be. I’m in the army because there’s no where else I can be. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve come to enjoy what I do, but I know I can do more. I decided a while ago that I don’t want to die out here. You might not believe how many soldiers I’ve met who don’t feel the same way._

_Hopefully my personal psychoanalysis was more interesting than staring at a wall. I’m going out on a limb and guessing you aren’t the kind of person who likes to be told things about people. I’d guess you’d much rather figure it out for yourself. It’s not much to go on, but if you’re as good of a detective as you claim to be, maybe you can figure something out._

_By the way, I happen to like the name John._

_Cheers-_

_J Watson_

 

As he read, Sherlock found himself grinning. While the letter seemed casual, it was obvious that a lot of time and effort had been put into making it perfect. Not only had the man accepted Sherlock’s challenge, he’d also issued one of his own. Frustrating as it was, however, there was only so much he could deduce without a picture. The letter was enough to make some assumptions, but Sherlock wasn’t a fan of jumping to conclusions without all the evidence. As much as he liked to show off, he disdained being wrong. Still, some things about the captain were clear.

Sherlock stood up and walked over to his desk, wiping a section clear so he could write. He took out a fresh piece of paper and began scribbling in black pen. The entire letter took him less than half an hour to write, but the detective took a frankly embarrassingly long amount of time rereading and confirming his deductions based on the little evidence he had. Just as he was signing his name, a nurse opened his door and told him it was time for lunch. Sherlock shooed him out so he could finish in peace. He folded the paper neatly and sealed it inside a new envelope before writing the necessary information on the outside. As he was standing up, he noticed one of the open case files on the floor (it had been knocked down when Sherlock was making room to write, not that he had noticed at the time). He remembered he had yet to inform Lestrade on the crimes he’d solved, and reached for his phone. While cell phones normally were not allowed, he had argued with the staff that it was necessary for his job, and thankfully Mycroft (who could be very persuasive when the time called for it) had backed him up. He was allowed to keep the phone on the conditions that it stay in his room, and he wasn’t to tell any of the other patients that he had it. The last thing they wanted was a mob of addicts fighting for their right to text.

Sherlock finished typing and put his phone back on the nightstand before making his way the door, grabbing his sealed letter off his desk, and exiting the room. After a quick stop to the outgoing mail slot, Sherlock made his way to the cafeteria.

_You may just make this worth my time, Captain Watson. Please don’t disappoint._

__________________________________________________________________________

The dealer burned a card before turning one up, the jack of clubs. John threw a few chips in the pot.

"I'll raise."

The woman next to him did the same, as well as the two people after. A corporal from a different platoon looked at his cards with obvious distaste. He tossed them towards the dealer.

"I'm out."

Bryer, who was seated directly across from John, gave a cocky smile.

"I'll raise ya 5."

Several of the soldiers at the table groaned and threw their cards on the table. John considered his hand before throwing the necessary amount to the pot. 2 others did the same. Bryer placed his cards on the table face down and leaned back in his chair.

“Oi, John. You’ve been in a good mood lately.”

John was busy comparing his hand to the cards on the table.

"Have I? Someone should have told me." He replied sarcastically.

The dealer turned over another card, a 10 of hearts. John took a sip of non-alcoholic beer from a glass bottle. Being on the front lines, drinking wasn't allowed. Not that John minded; He wasn't really a fan of the stuff, anyway.

Bryer chuckled at the snarky comment, and took a drag from his cigarette. He wasn't a chain smoker, but he enjoyed one after a long day. After blowing the smoke out of his lungs, he continued in the same snide tone John had adopted.

"Well, I'm pretty sure you were born with a stick up your ass, so 'good mood' for you is relative."

John cracked a small smile as the rest of the table laughed. It was John's turn again.

"I'll raise 1."

The woman to John's left grumbled and folded. When it got to Bryer, he raised another chip. Neither John nor the soldier next to him backed down. The dealer turned over a 6 of diamonds. Bryer took another drag before leaning forward and putting his elbows on the table.

"Seriously, John. What the hell happened? You're smilin' a whole 2 times a day now. Sometimes 3!"

"What, you're keepin’ a tally now? And you tell me to get a life..."

The dealer turned over a 9 of clubs.

"You got a girl back home now, or somethin'?"

"I really don't know what you're talking about. "

The dealer turned over the last card, the king of clubs. John’s smile turned smug.

"I'm raising 5."

The soldier folded without much thought, leaving only John and Bryer left. The older man looked between his hand and the 5 cards on the table. After a minute, he tossed his cards to the dealer. John reached for the pot.

“You better have a damn good hand, John.”

The younger man smirked, tossing his cards to Bryer face up.

“Pair of fives.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you guys think! Suggestions are always welcome :)


	4. The Side of the Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you thought Sherlock was bad during private therapy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter's a little late! I was pretty busy this holiday so hopefully you won't have to wait so long for the next chapter!

***3 months prior***

 

It was an overcast day, though it hadn’t been raining. The Inspector had a new case for the young genius, but when all his texts had gone unanswered, he excused himself from the crime scene to go to Sherlock’s flat. It was small and rundown, but it was the only place he could afford with no real source of income. Of course, Mycroft offered to pay for somewhere nicer, but Sherlock was more likely to steal money off a corpse than take charity from his brother.

 

He knocked on the door and waited for a few minutes, shouting the detective’s name periodically. When he got no response, he tried the doorknob. It was unlocked, a bad habit of the younger man.

 

“Sherlock, I’m coming in!” he shouted through the crack in the door, and he waited a second before fully entering. Lestrade made his way through the main room, which served as a kitchen and living room. Further down the hallway, the bedroom door was cracked open. Pushing it wider, he peered in.

 

His heart dropped.

 

Sherlock was on the floor, his back leaning on the bed. His lips and nails were turning a sickly blue. Lestrade ran up to sit next to him, and grabbed his wrist, searching desperately for a pulse. When he managed to find one, it was weak and slow. He screamed Sherlock’s name and shook his shoulders, trying to elicit some kind of response. When this failed, he grabbed his cellphone and dialed 9-9-9. As Lestrade talked to the responder, Sherlock began to moan, his head rolling back and forth. Still on the phone, Lestrade forced Sherlock’s head up, and used his thumb to open his drooping eyes. His pupils were at pinpoint. He might not have wanted to admit it, but he knew those symptoms well. Even if he didn’t, the track marks on his arm were clear.

 

“Please send an ambulance quickly. My friend overdosed on heroin.”

__________________________________________________________________________

***present time***

 

“Why don’t we all welcome our newest member to group therapy! Would you like to introduce yourself?”

 

Ella’s spoke in her usual, overly friendly tone. It reminded Sherlock of a kindergarten teacher speaking to her class.

 

A young, skinny man stood from his seat. His skin was sickly white, and his red-tinted eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets. The bags under his eyes were so dark they almost appeared to be bruises. Sherlock imagined he look similar at one point. The man started in a meek tone, his shoulders caved inward.

 

“My name is Tommy, Tom for short.”

 

The addict chuckled anxiously at his own joke as his eyes darted around the room, obviously looking for some sign of approval. The 8 other people in group mindlessly chanted “Hello, Tom.” The man continued.

 

“As of a few days ago, I’m 20 years old. And as of a week ago, I’m 2 months sober. I came here because I’m worried I’ll relapse.”

 

Sherlock, who was obviously uninterested as he picked as his fingernails, muttered under his breath.

 

“ _2 months? More like a week…_ ”

 

Ella, who was seated across from him, gave him a pointed glance; A look which Sherlock was familiar with. He raised his hands slightly in mock surrender, which seemed to satisfy Ella enough. She returned to her happy, primary school teacher personality and looked back to Tom.

 

“Are there any stories you’d like to share with the group?”

 

The man spoke as he sat down slowly. “I don’t think so…”

 

“ _Really_?” Sherlock mumbled, slightly louder this time. Tom’s eyes shot to meet his, confusion clear on his face. He spoke in a genuine, but shy tone.

 

“I’m sorry, did you say something?”

 

Sherlock considered staying silent for a moment, as he could practically feel Ella staring him down, but the genius inside him demanded an audience. He sat up in his chair, assuming a much more regal posture.

 

“Well I just thought you’d enjoying telling us a story, considering how much you like to lie.”

 

Tom gave a nervous chuckle as he looked around the room. He tried to look relaxed, but his body was obviously tense.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

Ella spoke quietly but forcefully. “Sherlock _that’s enough._ ”

 

The detective continued anyway.

 

“Sorry to break this to you, but you aren’t very convincing. I mean, do you really expect us to believe you’ve been sober for months when your withdrawal symptoms are, quite literally, written all over your face?”

 

Tom didn’t try to speak. His face portrayed a look somewhere between disbelief and guilt. The rest of the group gave him awkward but sympathetic glances, as most of them had been in the same position before.

 

“ _Sherlock, please_.”

 

“Even worse than that, you actually expect me to believe that _you_ checked _yourself_ in here? Sorry, but one sideways glance at you tells me that you don’t have that kind of self control. So who was it, your brother?”

 

The awe on Tom’s face confirmed his theory.

 

“Don’t worry, my brother’s an arse, too.”

 

“ _SHERLOCK_.”

 

Ella had stood up from her chair. Sherlock locked eyes with her, neither willing to look away for several moments. Finally, Sherlock returned to his disinterested posture, his eyes drifting down from Ella back to his hands. He started picking at his fingernails like nothing had happened. Tom was still speechless, most likely due to a combination of shock and embarrassment. Ella sat down, regaining what she could of her calm personality.

 

“Why don’t we end group early today, yeah? I’m sure Tom had a long first day, so why don’t a few of you take him to the rec room and introduce him to everybody else.”

 

A couple of the addicts volunteered, and Tom followed them silently. Ella was busy looking at her clipboard and writing quickly as the rest of the group followed them out of the room. Sherlock was last in line, but just as he reached the door, he heard Ella speak. She didn’t look up from her clipboard.

 

“Not. You.”

 

The last patient had let the door shut behind her, leaving them alone in the small room. Sherlock stopped and made a face akin to a toddler being told to go to time out. He turned around and started shuffling back to his seat. He had expected a speech from his therapist, but had hoped she would save it for their private session tomorrow. All he wanted to do now was be alone in his room. When he finally reached his chair, he sat down with a huff. Ella looked up from her notes, her eyes staring daggers into Sherlock.

 

“I can’t believe you.”

 

“Impressive, right? I mean, I knew it was a sibling but you can never really tell if it’s a sister or a brother. It’s a 50/50 shot, so I suppose luck was on my side.”

 

Ella scoffed. Her calm demeanor was long since abandoned, while Sherlock stayed composed.

 

“As arrogant as usual, I see. Do you ever stop and consider that these little performances of your hurt people? Tom is here to get better, and you manage to traumatize him on his first day!”

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize lying to yourself was the first step in this program.”

 

“Is that was this is about? Do you actually think you’re helping these people?”

 

“I wouldn’t say helping, more like… shoving reality in their face.”

 

“Oh, because that’s _SO_ much better.”

 

“I never claimed to be a hero.”

 

“You’re a detective. It’s your job to catch bad guys.”

 

“Being on the side of the angels doesn’t make me one.”

 

“What’s wrong with being an hero?”

 

Sherlock finally had enough. He stood from his chair and whipped around to face the window. It was just past dinner time, but the winter sun has long since set. Outside, the sky was pitch black; The moon and any stars that should have been out were covered by low hanging clouds. He turned to face Ella again when he spoke; The aggravation in his voice was obvious.

 

“It’s not who I am. I’m selfish, I need attention, I hate everyone around me; hardly the qualities of a hero.”

 

“You could-”

 

“I could _what_? Change? Why? Sorry, but I’ve accepted who I am, and I don’t care what the rest of you lot think of me. I’ve told you this a thousand times. I don’t need friends. All I need is work, something to keep my brain busy.”

 

“Lestrade saved your life. You don’t even consider _him_ a friend?”

 

“None of my coworkers are friends. They’re my _audience_.”

 

Ella simply stared at Sherlock, her face giving no indication as to how she felt. After a moment, she stood and gathered her things. She spoke quietly, her calm voice returning to her.

 

“You have so many people in your life who care about you, but if you keep pushing them away, one day you’ll wake up and realize you’re alone. Really, _truly_ alone.”

 

Ella turned and left, slowly closing the door behind her. Sherlock’s head was rested against the cool window as he looked out over the bright city. The only sound was Ella’s footsteps as she walked down the hallway, until they were too far to be heard.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who's reading this! As always, if you have ANY suggestions or comments, let me know! They honestly keep me going! <3


End file.
